


Their Law

by EyeofMazikeen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Bondage, Cock Rings, Dom!Mycroft, Fingerfucking, Foursome, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Handcuffs, Jimstrade, M/M, Mild Pet Play, Sex Toys, Spanking, Sub!Jim, Vibrators, all sorts of depravity really, cock gags, dom!lestrade, glove sex, holmescest, jimcroft - Freeform, mystrade, ship all the things!, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeofMazikeen/pseuds/EyeofMazikeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Total pwp smutfest featuring just about every combination of Sherlock, Greg, Mycroft, and Jim that you could hope for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Law

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taylorpotato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorpotato/gifts).



> For the gorgeous, talented, and exquisitely perverted TaylorPotato. This was your christmas present. Is now your valentines day present. I hope the porn makes up for the lateness.

It’s one of those nights that Jim is quite certain will last forever. A lifetime.  Not necessarily in a good way. More in a drawn taut, pulled thin, stretched to the very limit sort of way. Which is exactly how every muscle in his body feels. Wrung out. Burning from the exertion of fighting back against the black leather straps that circle his wrists and bind them to the chair armrests. They’re the perfect compliment to the bands that hold his legs tight against the chair’s. The spreader bar secured with a third set of straps keeps him from closing his legs completely, or even somewhat.  He's spread open, on display, and being ingored.  It only adds to the feeling of time dragging uncomfortably long.

Not necessarily in a bad way either, he thinks to himself, as he eyes Sherlock’s form. That long frame is bent neatly over the foot of the hotel bed, his pert arse presented just so, begging for a bit more color to be added to the already rosy glow it was sporting. It’s hard not to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight. Or perhaps a breath of more than relief, as Sherlock moans in that almost impossibly deep baritone. His voice is muffled; sounding hungry and desperate all at once as the sound of footsteps approaching from behind spurs him to writhing. Long fingers clench and unclench as Sherlock pulls at the handcuffs restraining his arms behind his back. Perhaps the gesture is in anticipation. Perhaps frustration, as the footsteps stop along side Jim’s chair just long enough to cause the criminal’s heartbeat to stutter and his throat to tighten.

 _Oh thank god_. Mycroft only pauses for a moment, content to pass Jim by with little more than an affectionate pat to the head. The touch spurs something nasty in his chest; fury collides with relief and leaves Jim simply feeling exhausted and hollow despite his mounting excitement. It’s a strange, heady cocktail and finally he gives in, drinking in the anticipation and gratitude that it’s not yet his time. Or rather that it’s not yet his time _again_.

No, it is in fact Sherlock’s turn, and Jim honestly doesn’t know if he’s more frustrated or relieved at the prospect of having to watch. It’s torture either way. Not because he doesn’t enjoy these things. Far from it. But because is all so unexpected. This, he never saw coming.

Being taken by surprise, it turns out, isn’t exactly sexy. Meeting your part time hate-fuck and his pet DI for a little three way play only to have the party crashed by Big Brother is not sexy. Being tasered by said DI and trussed up while your other part time hate-fuck proceeds to have a team of what can only be described as ‘professional deviants’ turn the rather expensive suite (that Jim himself had paid for thank you very much) into some sort of impromptu sex dungeon? Ok, that was a little sexy. Simultaneously frustrating, but still a little sexy.

Even the thought of the intruders having to move a St. Andrew’s Cross through the lobby of The Corinthia doesn’t lighten Jim’s mood. Perhaps, he thinks to himself in a rare moment of clarity, the few hours he spent strapped to it while Lestrade and Mycroft took turns cropping, slapping, stroking, fucking, and all around tormenting him helped the novelty to wear off.

Overall it is enjoyable. Quite. While Jim is confident that all three of the participators know the safewords they’ve individually assigned him, there hasn’t been call to come close to using them. Not that he would ever give Mycroft or Sherlock the satisfaction. And Greg might actually enjoy the feel of playing the merciful master, so that’s a no on his count as well.

No, it’s not the snug feeling of the rubber cock ring holding him at painful attention or the thick feel of a rather sizable toy inserted into his arse that is unenjoyable. It really is the surprise of it all. Because not having seen this coming? It sucks. It sucks a lot, and in fact also entails a lot of sucking. Which the soreness in Jim’s jaw reminds him he’s been doing for a rather extended period of time. Fuck them all. Fuck all three of them and all their assistants and fuck if Jim isn’t entirely sure he’s going to set this entire goddamned hotel, no, the entire goddamn CITY on fire when he finally gets free.

That is if he doesn’t spend the evening, or god forbid he rest of the week, sleeping in one of the two matching crates that Mycroft’s team has so courteously set up to either side of the hotel bed.

The soft, wet moans and little whimpers that sound through the hotel room more than make up for the lingering feel of failure though. And what the sound of him doesn’t chase away, the sight of him surely does. All Jim can see is glimpses of Sherlock’s pale thighs and lush arse bent over the foot of the bed between swings and strikes of the belt. The rest is obscured by Mycroft’s frame, surprisingly graceful as he lands another series of strokes along his brother’s backside. Jim is beyond counting at this point, all but moaning around the thick rubber cock filling his mouth as his own prick jumps with the sound of each delicious leather-on-skin impact.

“You’ve been told to suck cock, Sherlock. Not moan after it like a bitch in heat.” Another series of swift strokes has Sherlock all but keening around the mouthful of flesh choking him, but he swiftly regains his composure and silences himself. “Gregory gives you far too much leeway. I can see now why my intervention was required.”

‘Oi. Some of us were actually enjoying that, you know.” Greg’s usually amiable voice is an odd combination of shagged out and mockingly chastising. He’s less used to these prolonged sessions than Mycroft is, obviously. Jim can hear it in the slight rawness of his throat, the plaintive undertone that hides just beneath his words and all but screams ‘please god just let Sherlock keep deep throating me already’.

Mycroft answers with a roll of his eyes. Not that Jim can see the exasperated grey stare and telltale blink but the set of the man’s shoulders say as much as his calculatedly expressive face ever could. The elder Holmes doesn’t bother to answer Lestrade’s comment. He merely takes one more half step forward and brings down the belt on Sherlock’s arse with a resounding smack that lets all parties in the room know exactly what he thought of the DI’s running commentary.

As if the sight of Sherlock being whipped into submission by his normally cool and buttoned down brother isn’t enough to drive Jim to the point of madness, Mycroft himself surely is. The man is a sight in his own right; waistcoat off, thin cotton of his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a thin sheen of sweat just barely visible above his unbuttoned collar. Black gloves outline the contour of his long fingers as they run unhurriedly along the length of the belt before delivering another round of quick, sharp blows. The leather strap in his hand must have been brought separately; certainly the elder Holmes would never make a faux pas as great as wearing a belt with a three piece suit. Somehow the idea of Mycroft having a belt just for whipping Sherlock with causes Jim’s already heavy cock to throb, the feeling of precome accumulating around the tip an exquisite but rather tortuous addition to the symphony of sensation already assaulting him. The only blessing is that he can’t see much of Greg, the man’s kneeling body largely obscured by Sherlock’s bent form and Mycroft’s tall frame.

When Mycroft finally steps back Sherlock’s ordinarily milk white flesh is striped with lovely bands of cherry red. A satisfied and affectionate hum, born deep in Mycroft’s chest, perfectly compliments a soft, contemplative pat to the reddened skin of his brother’s arse. When Sherlock whines and bucks back slightly into the touch it is swiftly removed, and Jim bites back a laugh around the mouthful of rubber. Sure, he's drooling all over himself like a fucking toothless invalid but at least he has _some_ measure of self control left. Self control that seems to be swiftly dissipating as Mycroft inspects his handiwork.

Jim can feel his own thighs tensing in anticipation at the contrast of glove against skin, muscles sore from pushing against the tension of the spreader bar. Fuck, the way that the sight of Mycroft’s gloved hands on Sherlock’s skin has Jim’s cock twitching in its rubberized restraint makes one thing certain. Mycroft had better keep those damned things on the next time they wrapped themselves around Jim’s throat or there were going to be a lot more critical terror watches in London’s future.

The train of thought is lost as those devilish fingers begin trailing idle paths up and down the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, almost soothing if it weren't for the fact that the white skin had been whipped into redness that Jim knows makes the younger Holmes almost unbearably sensitive. When Sherlock stills the stroking stops, and a leather hand reaches out to give one cheek an affectionate pat before executing a series of hard pinches to the soft flesh along the inside of his brother’s left thigh.

“I told you I was more than happy to give you pointers on how to bring my unruly little brother to heel, Gregory. But if you’re more interested in getting your cock sucked than you are in actually taking something lasting away from this meeting I can simply leave you to it.” Mycroft’s tone is silken and smooth, his drawl dragging slowly over words he’s in no rush to get out. In fact, the bastard sounds perfectly at home in the absurd situation. Like he has no qualms at all with whipping Sherlock senseless while his beloved little brother struggles to breathe with Gregory Lestrade’s cock shoved halfway down his narrow throat. Mycroft sounds, against all odds, almost bored. It’s enough to spark another round of fury in Jim’s chest, and he bites into the rubber cock filling his mouth in sheer frustration.

“Enough of that.” Mycroft’s chastisement comes quickly, and damn if the man doesn’t even turn around to witness the indiscretion or administer the punishment. All Jim has is a moments warning as one long fingered hand drops the belt casually on the floor and reaches into the pocket of his well tailored trousers. A single twitch of those fingers and a low thrum moves through Jim, hits his nerves and sets them all alight before it actually hits his ears.

Bound as he is, all the brunette can do is arch is back slightly to press down against the vibrating bullet inside him, rocking his hips slightly to try and encourage it deeper. As it sits it currently, the device brushes up just shy of the edge of his prostate. As it hums it sends pleasurable little pulses through him. Torturous pulses that won’t be near enough to get him off. Heat and tension coil almost uncomfortably tight around the very base of his spine and he bites back a whine.

Or at least _thinks_ he does; it’s obvious from the way that the vibrations increase and start to pulse an almost unbearable ‘ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum-dum-dummmmmm’ rhythm inside him that he has not been successful in stemming the noise of protest.

“It doesn’t seem that _your_ pet has learned any of the lessons you’ve applied,” the DI snarkes, using his fistfull of black curls to leverage Sherlock’s mouth up and off of him. Exhausted, the detective collapses bonelessly on the bed once freed. Soft whimpers escape his parted lips as he gasps and chokes breath back into his undoubtedly burning lungs.

“James is quite adaptable. It seems he’s become relatively immune to my usual methods of punishment. Hence our arrangement, Gregory.” At that Mycroft did turn and look at James, a bland gaze that somehow has heat sparking and skipping along each of Jim’s nerves. Or wait, maybe that was just the increased pulse on the vibrator inside him. Its delicious little shocks and subsequent pauses start coming what seemed to be random spurts; the pattern incalculable and therefore unpredictable.

Each new round causes Jim to jump in his restraints, which in turn causes Mycroft to give him an almost fond smile. Somehow, Jim manages to will himself back from the brink of utter freefall through sheer fury. His stretched lips curl into a smile, or at least as much of a smile as they can muster while wrapped around the length of silicone violating his mouth. A quirk of one dark eyebrow perfectly complimented the way that the criminal used what little room he had to suggestively run his tongue along the underside of the toy.

“Yes, darling. We all know you’re quite good. But I suspect that the combination of Gregory’s relatively unfamiliar touch and the utter surprise of this all will keep you off kilter enough that you might actually learn a thing or two.” Mycroft retreats slightly, taking in the sight of his brother slumped over the bed, chin wet with saliva and gasping for breath. The impressive tent in the front of his well tailored trousers makes it evident that Mycroft’s finds the scene at least as appealing as the other members of this obscene little show, if not more so.

With a soft whine, Sherlock wriggles himself a centimeter or two further up onto the mattress. His long neck arches as he strains to regain contact with Lestrade’s enticingly close prick. Predictably, Greg re-laces his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, only to be stopped by a swift crack of one leather gloved hand to Sherlock’s bottom.

“No, _no_. That’s exactly what he wants. You have to control yourself before you can control Sherlock.” For a moment Mycroft seems almost frustrated, grey eyes flashing as he takes in the sight of Greg’s fingers tugging Sherlock’s mouth closer to his groin. Jim holds back a smirk. It seems that dominating three men is a bit much even for the formidable Mycroft Holmes to handle. The auburn haired man takes a breath, obviously meant to fortify his patience, before continuing.

“Don’t be simple and give him what he wants.” A quirk of one silvery brow almost precedes a question, but Mycroft answers before Greg can even verbalize his thoughts. “Of _course_ he wants to get you off. It’s a game, and he’s playing to _win_ , Gregory. He’ll dominate every situation he’s in, trussed up or not, beaten half to death or completely unmarked, if you give him half the chance. Think beyond your raging erection for once.” A sick feeling wars with the mounting excitement building inside Jim, causing his hips to stutter erratically as grey eyes turn colly in his direction. Greg’s attention follows, and Jim fights back the instinct to try and close his legs, instead spreading them as wide as the bar will allow, rocking as much as he can against the still vibrating toy in his arse.

“Besides. If you need to satisfy your urges before you can continue your lesson, we have another set of willing holes immediately at our disposal.” Fuck, those words shouldn’t make the mounting pleasure inside him turn from a molten thread to a full on river of lava. But they do. Grey and brown eyes both pierce him at once, and Jim has just enough sense left to still himself under the weight of their combined stares.

“True enough.” The DI shifts on the bed, sliding away from Sherlock as the younger man gives a plaintive moan that all three other parties in the room dutifully ignore.

Greg’s cock is hard, erect and positively leaking. It bobs slightly between his legs as the detective slides off the mattress, standing nude and unashamed at the side of the bed. One hand continues to idly stroke Sherlock’s curls, and the younger man relaxes into the touch. Whether Sherlock is relieved by the gesture of affection after his rather severe whipping or just happy that they pair’s attention is off him for even a moment is uncertain. Jim could tell, he _knows_ he could tell, if he can just stop staring at Lestrade’s cock. The slightly curved length is covered with a mixture of precome and Sherlokc’s saliva and fuck if Jim hasn’t seen anything more appealing. At least in the last fifteen minutes or so.

“I suspect that he’s less acclimated to your pacing and techniques. And he seems rather partial to Sherlock’s recently received treatment. Perhaps we can let our overeager little slut,” Mycroft compliments the words with an affectionate trail of fingers down his brother’s spine, causing the lean detective to shudder under the pressure. “Cool his heels in Jim’s position and swap them out, hmm?”

“I think I’d rather give my arm a try. I’m rested enough from the crop that I think I can handle getting his arse at least as red as you’ve gotten Sherlock’s.” There’s a friendly, yet still competitive tone in Greg’s voice as he strides confidently over to Jim.

Mycroft gives a rather bland smile in return, but Jim can tell from the hints of tightness around his eyes that all three available parties are going to suffer at some point for that ill advised bit of snark. Still, he lets Lestrade advance towards Jim uninterrupted. In fact, his pupils betray his interest the moment that the DI makes contact with his favored pet. They blow wide and dark as Lestrade trails his fingers down the smaller man’s throat while smiling down into his gagged face.

“This is exactly why I chose you as a partner in this endeavor, Gregory. It seems that against all odds, you’re capable of surprising the great James Moriarty. By all means, please. Have at.”

“I don’t think it’s quite the same if he doesn’t have a nice cock stuffed in that smart mouth of his.” Greg flashes a wicked grin back at Mycroft over one shoulder. “After all, I do think it was the _entire_ scene that had him so aroused. I think he should really get a taste of what he’s been begging after.’

“Ah. Excellent point, and one I’m gladly willing to cede.” The throbbing pulse of the vibrator inside him stops, and Jim sags in his restraints for a moment, overcome with relief. It doesn’t last long. The room is a blur of movement as both Mycroft and Greg descend on him. The taller man works at the gag in his mouth while the detective inspector swiftly undoes the straps binding him down and works free those holding the spreader bar in place.

Moving in what seems like practiced unison, Mycroft leaves Greg to manhandle an unbound Jim onto the bed as he undoes his trousers. And manhandle it must be, for Jim knows that he can’t support himself on his aching thighs. Without any control over his movements Jim doesn’t see whether Mycroft divests himself fully or simply pulls out his cock, and the lack of visual input causes him to squirm against the broader, stronger hands restraining him.

The telltale click of police issue handcuffs stills him for a moment, and Greg uses the pause to secure his arms against the small of his back. For a moment Jim is a perfect version of Sherlock in slight miniature. Handcuffed, spread legged, and bent over the hotel bed. Greg’s hands withdraw and Mycroft’s replace them. He arranges Jim so that he and Sherlock are facing each other. Jim’s black eyes eyes meet and Sherlock’s icy blues, and he feels a satisfied warmth crawl through his abdomen as they spark with pure hate. If it’s spurred by Mycroft’s gloved gloved fingers trail along Jim’s spine instead of his own, or Lestrade giving him an affectionate tap on the arse with the newly retreived belt, ishard to say.

“No. Leave him here. It’s best for him to see exactly what his little schemes have cost him.”

“Now James. Show my brother here what a good little pet looks like, and perhaps Gregory and I will let you come.” Long fingers tighten in Jim’s short dark hair, holding him prone as Mycroft shifts into position on the bed. Once arranged, they tug until Jim’s neck is craned at an uncomfortable angle. He finds himself looking up into Mycroft’s cement colored eyes as he gazes dispassionately down, though the pleasure is obvious once again in the width of his pupils. “If you do not, however, I think you’ll find your circumstances to be most disagreeable. Now. Do be a good boy, won’t you? I know you have it in you.”

“Ready.” Greg’s voice interrupts the almost intimate moment between them, and Jim has to bite back a growl. He only has a moment to contemplate what he’s done before a gloved hand connects hard with his face. Though delivered with an open palm, it still packed enough force to cause Jim‘s head to snap to the side and stars to dance in the edges of his vision.

“Behave, James.” The admonition is soft, and that makes it all the more dangerous. Resigning himself to his fate, Jim lets his body and jaw go obediently slack. The men on either side of him waste no time in starting their chosen tasks. Mycroft lifts Jim’s head and lowers his pliant mouth down onto his cock. Jim notes with no small amount of pleasure that Mycroft’s trousers have indeed come all the way off, as well as his shirt. The Iceman must be very well pleased indeed. Only the most satisfactory of sessions end with him fully unclothed.

Before Jim can fully feel the satisfaction, Lestrade starts in with the belt. He loses himself in the strokes. Lash after lash falls on his exposed arse and soon he is choking, almost sobbing around Mycroft’s cock. His thighs clench painfully as his legs try to reflexively close. He doesn’t quite succeed in fully suppressing the instinct, and Greg answers by thrusting a knee between his thighs and nudging them apart. Jim arches into the movement, rubbing himself against the sheets as he pushes back into Greg’s warm skin. The gesture only makes Greg whip him that much harder, stopping every so often to run the folded edge of the belt up and down along the crack of his arse, and underside of his balls.

The stroking and whipping continues for what seems like a small eternity; Jim struggling to breath in between the choking sensation of the cock in his mouth and the sobs tightening his thoat. Indifferent to his suffering, Lestrade continues at a rather impressive pace.

On a few occasions he stops just long enough to make Jim think that he is finished before starting up again with renewed vigor. During these pauses he slides his hand between Jim’s spread legs, using his thumb to press at his exposed perineum until the criminal ruts helplessly against the sheets. It only lasts for a few thrusts before Mycroft holds his head down until he chokes, eyes watering as he fights against instinct to regain control of his hips even while his brain starves for oxygen.

Finally the blows slow and eventually stop. Greg stills behind him, panting hard, though if it is from exertion, excitement, or simply exhaustion Jim cannot tell. He can’t deduce anything beyond the aching, burning feel that covers his arse and thighs, and the heavy feel of Mycroft’s cock thrusting in and out of his mouth, and the unbearable tension that has drawn tight between his solar plexus and groin as his bound cock throbs and leaks against the hotel sheets.

“Fuck. I can’t. I need...” Greg’s voice is raw. The man sounds utterly wrecked. Fortunately he doesn’t have to fully vocalize his need in order for the elder Holmes to understand. Mycroft replies, his own voice starting to sound rough as Jim lathes the underside of his cock the best he can while still letting Mycroft guide all his movements.

“Please, Gregory. What’s mine is yours. At least, for this weekend. And hopefully again in the foreseeable future, schedules allowing.”

Jim is already slick and loose from the vibrator, though the whipping did cause him to tense up somewhat. Greg pays the telltale flexing of his thighs no mind. He simply slicks what sounds like two fingers with lube produced from any number of hiding spots around the suite and presses them into Jim. A moan wracks him and he arches his back into the touch because fuck, that feels a lot more like three fingers than two.

“A trick I learned that helps me keep Sherlock guessing.”

Sherlock. _Right_. Sherlock is next to him. Jim’s eyes refocus long enough to truly take in the sight. Dark curls made frizzy by the heat and moisture of generated by four bodies fucking in such close proximity. How could he have missed that delicious sight?

The overwhelming twin sensations of Mycroft’s cock in his mouth and Gregory’s whipping must have made him utterly unaware of anything other than his own body. Casting a furtive glance over, Jim can see that the raven haired man is writhing helplessly against the sheets. Undoubtedly the friction feels both blissful and tortuous against his overstimulated cock, which Jim can only imagine is restrained in a similar fashion to his own. His pale eyes have gone glassy and unfocused, and every so often a series of pleas fall from his swollen, parted lips. Jim drinks in the sound for an exquisite second, drunk on Sherlock’s vulnerability until Greg interrupts with a rough laugh and a sharp thrust of his fingers.

“Thought you’d like another little surprise. How does it feel, Jim? Surprised by someone so ordinary?” The words come out between a series of panting breaths and grunts. Detective Inspector Lestrade is quite obviously enjoying simultaneously fingerfucking and mocking he dangerous James Moriarty. Before Jim can even contemplate an appropriately biting answer those three fingers hook press inward and trace along the swell of his prostate and he can’t think of anything but the pleasure and pressure.

A primal rhythm takes Jim over, and he bucks back into those fingers as if his very life depends on it. Gasping for breath on each guided up stroke off Mycroft’s cock, Jim tries to hold himself still and steady as the fingers withdraw, only to be swiftly replaced with blunt feel of Greg’s cockhead against his entrance. The man pushes in slowly, centimeter by centimeter, allowing the minor amount of stretch and burn to dissipate before he picks up his pace and starts fucking Jim in earnest.

“Fuck, he’s so tight.” The words come out of Lestrade’s mouth as little more than a growl, and Jim can’t help but shoot a smug look at Sherlock before Mycroft jerks his head back into position.

“It’s one of his only redeeming qualities, I assure you.” Greg can only moan his assent as he continues thrusting into Jim’s arse, his hard yet still shallow strokes hitting the criminal’s prostate more often than not. Jim keens in frustration and pleasure, his trapped cock throbbing in its confines between his body and the mattress.

In response Sherlock gives another desperate whine, and Jim can feel Mycroft turn to address him. Hell, he can almost feel the disdainful stare that Mycroft casts down his nose at the sight of his brother, whining and writhing against the bed.

“It could be me fucking your face right now, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice holds only the barest hint of raggedness. He sounds no more winded or taxed than if he had just sprinted up a staircase. Certainly he does not sound like he is face fucking the world’s most dangerous criminal while his brother watches with eyes made hard by pure jealousy.

“Instead, you have to play your little games. Tell me, how does it feel, hmm? Having your rival and enemy spitted and pleasured next to you while you’re left to helplessly grind up against the sheets like the wanton animal you are?”

“Mycroft. _Greg_. Please. _Please_.” Once given permission to speak, Sherlock sounds more desperate than Jim has ever heard him. Greg doesn’t even have to say words, but Jim can tell from the shift behind him that he is looking to Mycroft for approval, no, _permission_ to grant Sherlock’s plea. Looking to Mycroft fucking Holmes for _permission_ to shag his stubborn little brother into the mattress.

The immense flash of heat that floods him at the thought is almost enough to distract Jim from the fact that if Greg gets his way Jim’s arse will be painfully empty while Sherlock gets fucked to completion right next to him. Mycroft sees fit to grant his blessing however, and Greg withdraws, leaving Jim to moan around Mycroft’s cock at the loss of fullness.

Greg moves behind Sherlock and reaches between his still-rosy cheeks, seeing out and giving a few light thrusts to the base of the plug hidden within. The noise Sherlock makes is positively inhuman, something between a scream and a moan as Greg slowly fucks him with the toy. When he finally quiets and stills the plug is withdrawn and discarded with a wet thud, and within moments Greg is buried to the hilt in the heat of Sherlock’s arse. The younger man keens and flexes underneath him, obviously desperate for the DI’s touch.

In a surprising display of both self-control and dominance Greg shoves one hand down hard between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, while the other grasps the chain between the handcuffs and uses them to leverage his thrusts even deeper. It appears that, despite all odds, the old dog (or rather fit silver fox, as the case may be) can indeed learn new tricks. The oldest one in the book is serving him well enough for the moment, though. Greg sets a pace that is firm but shallow, tugging Sherlock back into him with each snap of his hips. Sherlock is panting and shaking uncontrollably now, his voice raw from all but screaming entreaties for completion.

Jim finds it disconcerting that the noise he makes is not all that different from Sherlock’s plaintive cry when Mycroft pulls his cock free from the criminal’s mouth.

“Shh, pet. Shh. You did well.” Mycroft’s tone soothes him, somehow comforting despite the detached, posh enunciation. Jim can always tell that Mycroft is close when his mood shifts from domineering to soothing. What’s even more disconcerting is that, even in these most unguarded of moments, he cannot tell if Mycroft is simply playing his ascribed role or is being honest. Long fingers reach underneath him and work confining strap of rubber from around the base of his cock, and the matching one around his balls. It’s everything Jim can do to keep from rutting up against the sheets until he comes. Instead, he holds himself stock still, hardly daring to breath for fear that he might come simply from the small amount of friction it would generate.

The elder Holmes withdraws from the bed easily, and moves behind Jim with a grace that is far too self-possessed in comparison to the other three men in the room. That seems to go all to hell as he slicks himself and moves forward, penetrating Jim in a calculated yet languorous motion that has the criminal's hips stuttering. The rhythm of their mutual pleasure drives them both. Mycroft holds tightly onto Jim’s hips with his leather clad hands, his grip squeezing and releasing in time with each of his thrusts. It is over too soon, the bone searing summit of pleasure crashes over him, and Jim is only vaguely aware of Mycroft’s soft moan as he too crests. A slick, wet feeling fills him and Jim rides the pulses of Mycroft’s cock within him. His taxed, thin frame shakes and bucks for just a few seconds longer, entire frame freezing and going taut as he tips over the edge and plummets headfirst into orgasm.

His own pleasure crashes through him like a meteorite through the stratosphere, burning and consuming. Jim comes against the hotel sheets until he feels like there is nothing left of his abdomen but a crater. Caught in the throes of his own pleasure he misses both Greg’s and Sherlock’s orgasms, though from the utterly blank look on Sherlock’s face it was equally earth shattering.

“Mine lasted longer,” Mycroft drawls with a satisfied smile, withdrawing from Jim and affectionately giving him a pat on one still red cheek before seeking out the key to the handcuffs and releasing him. Any pride there Jim is certain belongs to Mycroft himself; the man has little investment in Jim’s completion other than using it as a tool to further assert his dominance over both Greg and Sherlock.

_Right?_

“Perhaps that’s worth him sleeping at the foot of the bed for his nap?” The words shake something core deep in Jim. It’s the first indication that this is all something more than one incredibly fucked up, incestuous weekend game. Because Mycroft never lets him sleep in the bed. Not ever. It’s the cage or ‘get out’, thank you very much. Always has been. And Jim thought it always would be. His brown doe eyes blink owlishly for a moment, as if a literal light had been turned on in the darkness.

“I was going to suggest that he get a blanket in his cage as a token of his victory, but he’s your pet. Reward him as you see fit.” Greg sounds utterly wrecked. Shagged out and spent and still utterly satisfied despite his ‘loss’. Sherlock is silent except for the occasional shuddering breath and slight shift against the mattress.

“Why thank you for your permission, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was dry enough to start forest fires. “And Sherlocks’ forfeit?”

“I was thinking about having him lick all your come out of Jim’s arse before I sent him off to shower.” Mycroft gave a pleased, lazy hum at the suggestion.

“Very well. It will save James having to clean up immediately. Fitting, in a way. Though I suppose you’ll want Sherlock to sleep in the bed too. You spoil him, you know. It’s why you can’t get a handle on him.”

“You’re one to talk.” Greg’s voice has an edge of sincerity to it that makes Jim uncomfortable, and he squirms slightly, flipping to his side and curling up on himself at the foot of the bed.

“Oh?” Mycroft’s tone is dangerously neutral. Lestrade obviously has no idea how thin the ice on which he treads is, or is too utterly spent to care.

“I’m pretty sure that you didn’t go through all this trouble just to teach me how to better dominate your brother.”

“I assure you that you have no idea what you’re talking about.” But Mycroft’s fingers curled slightly as they brushed through the wild dark disarray that was Jim’s hair, gently tracing along his temple, and Jim loosed an involuntary sigh. He let himself close his eyes against the sensation and pretend, just for a second, that it was real. It wasn’t that hard. Easy, really, because it _felt_ so real.

But that was what was so enticing about Mycroft. Truth from lies. Lies from truths. It was always impossible to tell the man’s intentions. But in some secret, rarely exposed part of his soul Jim knows that Mycroft is the only one capable of breaking him down to the point that he could stop thinking long enough to care and simply accept what felt comforting as actual comfort.

And perhaps Greg. Perhaps.

“Now. About that forfeit. A bottle of water for each and then I think it’s time that the debt is settled. I’d very much like my pet not to leak all over the sheets if I’m going to let him sleep in the bed. At least not any more than he already has.”

Greg’s chuckle is warm as he slides off the mattress and gathers three bottles from the miniature fridge on the other side of the suite. While he is out of earshot, Mycroft turns and leans over, whispering in Jim’s ear with a tone that is impossibly both affectionate and threatening.

“And you. Behave yourself and let Sherlock clean you without incident. If you don’t, this weekend is going to be even longer than you can possibly imagine.”

“Yes sir.” The words come to his lips unbidden. All Jim can hope is that Sherlock is passed out, or too gone in his own post coital after glow to hear the damnable phrase. It’s unlikely, but orgasms always leave Jim oddly optimistic.

“Very good, James. Very good. There’s hope for you and my degenerate mess of a brother yet. Especially now that I’ve managed to find the right help.” Righting himself, he leans in and gives Sherlock a tired but thorough kiss before settling up against the headboard. “Do behave yourselves with Gregory, boys. I’ll make you both regret it if you drive him off. I’m rather fond of this one, and I’m a rather busy man. With a bit of training he’ll be an excellent secondary dom for you both.”

The ‘ _don’t fuck this up_ ’ is audible in his tone if not his actual words. Jim feels something warm and not entirely unpleasant spread through his chest. Like brandy. If he didn't know better, he’d think it was... sentiment. God, Mycroft obviously fucked him until his brain gave up any pretense of sanity. Because fuck if having Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes use him at their leisure doesn’t just sound like the most wonderful idea. Hell. That just had to be the endorphins. The reward chemicals making him stupid. It’d fade. It’d always fade. But fuck if it wasn’t going to make for a rather enjoyable long weekend.

Before either Jim or Sherlock can make a noise of assent, Greg returns with the waters and distributes them amongst the three men on the bed.

“What’s so interesting over here that Sherlock’s got that ‘I just solved a case’ look on his face?”

“Oh, just discussing work arrangements. Do remind me to discuss your work schedule with you before we put our errant little beasts to bed?” Mycroft accepted his bottle gratefully, drinking down about half of it before handing the remainder off to Greg.

“Well before we can talk and anyone can sleep, these two need to hydrate. Then Sherlock has a rather lush bit of arse to give a thorough tongue bathing to.” Jim felt a small shudder run through him at the words, but the comforting pressure of Mycroft’s hand as it wrapped possessively but not tightly around his throat stilled it.

“Well then, shall we?” Mycroft’s tone was warm, affectionate in a way that Jim was certain he hadn’t ever heard before. With one gloved hand wrapped around Jim’s throat and the other carding through Sherlock’s dark curls he looked a picture of absolute contentment.

“Yeah. Let’s.” Greg’s warm smile lit up the room. No wonder it was easier for Mycroft to express any sort of affection at all. The DI seemed to exude it from every pore. That didn't stop him from giving Sherlock a rather sharp crack on the arse.

“Up, slut. You’ve been a disappointment” Sherlock whined slightly in protest but pulled himself up the best he could, his arms still bound behind him by handcuffs.

“Do I get to take these off at some point?” That usually sultry baritone was even huskier than normal, and the sound of it dropped deep into the pit of Jim’s stomach. Fucking hell, Sherlock with a well fucked throat sounded amazing.

“Oh _Sherlock._ ” Mycroft’s admonishing tone was only half in jest. “You really are a glutton for punishment aren’t you? Well. Fortunately Gregory and I are more than happy to assist you with your needs.”

Mycroft’s voice sent another round of pleasure pulsing sluggishly through Jim’s veins. He couldn’t possibly get hard again, but the very idea of watching Sherlock endure another ‘lesson’ was enough to have his blood humming. Oh, it was going to be a very long weekend. A very long weekend indeed. Perhaps the kind of weekend that lasted a lifetime, if no matter how long that may be.


End file.
